


Watch Over Me

by OnceUponABookworm



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M, I am and forever will be Kastle trash, Romance, please join me in the trash can, some blood and violence (not super graphic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 21:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12779634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceUponABookworm/pseuds/OnceUponABookworm
Summary: On a cold night in a colder city, one reporter's sentinel fails to keep his distance.





	Watch Over Me

Karen Page did _not_ know when to stop. She churned out article after article, rotating a burning spotlight on what seemed like a new scumbag each week with startling precision and stalwart conviction. With their lies and double deals they fed her more and more rope, which she proceeded to hang them on without hesitation. And of course, without regard to her own safety. No, Karen Page did not know when to stop. And Frank Castle was sure that one of these days, it was going to get her killed.

So he watched. He stood, solid and straight, and he trained his gaze on the Bulletin from a few buildings over. Her office lights would always be the last to go out, her slender silhouette occasionally floating past the window like a ghost. He could picture her in there as clear as day even in the night’s pitch black; in his mind her golden hair was spilling over her shoulder in gentle waves, bottom lip sucked in with concentration. He could see her, sorting through files, connecting dots, drinking coffee...making enemies. But they would never get the chance to come for her, as eight dead bodies in the past three months would testify, if they still could. He wanted to think that the man keeping silent vigil in his place was all Punisher, the small indulgence he allowed himself to scrub the streets of their filth.

But in reality he knew better.

He knew that if no one trailed her, if her .380 never discharged another bullet in its life, if Karen suddenly had a personality transplant and no longer made it her mission to seek out the shit of New York City and wipe it in the public’s nose until they were forced to acknowledge it, that he would still come and lean against his chimney, sipping from a thermos of black coffee and occasionally accompanied by a book. It was getting harder to be content with just that, though; it was getting harder to watch her clickclack past on the sidewalk and not speak up, to watch the white roses on her sill begin to wilt in the new year’s unforgiving chill and not answer her unspoken call. _It’s better this way_ , he told himself. _She’s happy and safe, and she doesn’t have to deal with your shit._ In this new, seemingly warless world, he didn’t know what the hell he was doing or who he was doing it for. Or at least he drilled it into his own head that he didn’t, because that was easier than trying to move on. His reverie was habit by now, a habit he dare not break for his own fear ( _for_ her, _of_ her, he wasn’t sure anymore).

The lights went out just as Frank placed the cap back on his thermos, and he slung his gun over his shoulder and waited for Karen to exit the building and hop into her car. She glanced over her shoulder before putting the keys in the door, and Frank gave a small smile. _‘Atta girl_. The Bulletin was safe, and he wasn’t surprised. It had been almost a month since Karen had released a story; either she was taking a break or she was onto something big. Frank kept too much distance to be able to tell. He started off on his usual route as her car pulled away; he would do a quick runby of her apartment to make sure she got home safe, and then he would go. He would go, and hope she didn’t hate him for it.

He tumbled and trodded a well-worn path through the rooftops and alleyways until he came to Karen’s place, where her car was already parked. The night was far from quiet, with the yells of a bickering couple and the distant echo of sirens and car backfires audible even against the dull blanket of the dark, intermittently punctured with street lights’ fluorescent halos. Yet the sounds of a city without sleep and a city in distress were second nature to him by now, making it almost as good as silent. Frank vaulted a chain link fence with a notable rattle, and began his perimeter sweep.

Front entrance, clear.

First side door, clear.

Bottom windows, unbroke--

There was a crisp crack underneath his boot as he walked down the building’s side, and he looked down to see a shattered vase with wizened white petals scattered across a pile of soil. In an instant, he switched from one mode to another, from the routine of a sentinel to the narrow focus of a predator. His heart was rapid and his throat thick as he glanced up to Karen’s window and tried to listen; all it took was a short crash, sounding like a beer bottle dropped on the floor, for him to break the window in front of the stairwell and leap in. His heart was beating ever faster as he ran; he could almost hear his own blood slamming against his arterial walls as if it could propel him upward by sheer urgency alone. He reached the door, and his hand gripped his shotgun with white knuckles as he kicked it open without thought. He could see her, her face pressed into the kitchen counter with a 9-mm snug against the back of her head and her hair fisted into the hand of a burly, black-clad, bearded man who didn’t know he was dead yet.

Frank lifted his shotgun, his eyes endless pits of unrestrained fury focused on Karen’s unreadable blue irises, and his finger enclosed around the trigger just as a knife slammed into his back. “Frank!” Karen shouted desperately, and in retort her captor yanked her upward and shielded himself with her body. His partner tried to dislodge his dagger from Frank and go for a second shot, but as his hands wrapped around the hilt, the marine twisted and punched him square in the jaw, breaking his nose and winding him. He took the knife out himself, plunging it deep into the slender man’s clavicle as he tried to regain his footing and sending him into a slump against the wall, his eyes glazed over. Frank began to turn towards the other when a shot rang out, grazing past his ear with a notable sting on his neck and lodging itself in the wall behind him.

“That was a warning,” the man said, his voice all baritone and bravado, though his quaking hands betrayed him. He knew who he was up against. Karen stood rigid in his grip, her forehead trickling a thin river of blood from a gash just below her hairline and her gray blouse….her gray blouse ripped open, exposing freckled skin. The sight of it rooted Frank to his stance on the hardwood, and he raked his eyes over her attacker with an unspoken promise of death. Wary of every centimeter between him, the gun, and Karen, he began to raise his hands placatingly, but the man--if you could call him that--let out a snarl of protest and pressed his pistol further into Karen’s hair. “Drop the shotgun.”

His skin on fire, Frank complied, meeting the man’s eyes. “What do you want with her, huh? She’s no use to you.”

“She pissed off the wrong people,” he replied steadily, moving his body a little further behind Karen’s. “That’s all there is to it.”

“You pissed off the wrong people too,” Frank growled, taking a step forward.

“Stop! I know who you are, I know I can’t beat you,” he said, his voice getting higher and Frank’s vision getting redder. “Listen, I’ll let her go if you let me go. Okay?”

“No, don’t--” Karen started, but Frank cut her off, his mind only on getting her away. Safe and away, and then he would go. He had to go, because that’s how this always ended.

“Okay. You got a deal.”

“Good,” the attacker nodded. He edged towards the apartment door by a few steps, his mouth moving nervously as if trying to muster words and his hands even more shaky with the prospect of freedom so close. “We were never gonna kill you anyway,” he told Karen, his mouth so close to her ear that his breath wafted a strand of hair forward. She winced, and a hundred ways to torture a man flew through Frank’s head as his gaze bore into the skull of the monster in front of him. He moved his head behind Karen’s as he reached the doorway, and his eyes glinted with triumph, a cocky smile playing on his lips. “Never wanted to kill you, Karen, you know that. Just teach you a lesson, have a little fun...Consider yourself taught.” Frank watched Karen’s face set to stone, and she swung her head back just as the man began to lower his gun, the satisfying pop of a broken bone sounding out in time with the man’s groan of pain. She leapt away and Frank was on him in an instant like a mad dog. Ignoring his pitiful yelps, Frank dragged him back into the apartment, throwing him over the couch where he landed on his shoulder and the slick sound of bones slipping from joints could be heard. With his own gun Frank began to beat his already bloody face, again and again and again even when he began to see brain matter. A small, barely audible gasp broke through the war drums in his head to reach him, and he was suddenly all too aware of who and where he was, of the blood coating his chest and hands, splattered across his face. Slowly, fearfully, he turned to look at her, his rage subsiding and the rabid heat underneath his skin taken over by the comfortable warmth that Karen’s presence brought him. Her hand covered her rosy lips the way it did when she was surprised or scared. She backed up against the only undamaged wall, across from the couch, and slouched with a strangled cry.

“Karen…” Frank began, though he didn’t know where to end. He stood, taking a few hesitant steps forward; Karen fixed him with her gaze, blue eyes electric, and he stopped, gone even though he was just an arm’s length away.

“Where have you been, Frank?” she asked quietly. “Where…” she stopped to take a steadying gulp and tear her eyes from him to the ground. “Where the hell have you been?” She was crying now, curling down to where the wall met the floor, and Frank had lost all sense of self-control.

“Hey, shh, hey,” he stooped down on one knee, catching her elbow in one hand as the other reached to cup her face. By instinct alone and the distant wisp of a memory he pulled her closer, and she rested her head on his shoulder while her breathing stabilized. Her hair was brushing against his cheek and he could smell her shampoo, or maybe it was perfume? Whatever it was, it smelled like honeysuckle, and he wanted to drown himself in it. Searching for a distraction from whatever feeling was threatening to overcome him, he gently pulled back so he could look her in the face. His eyes traced the trail of blood on her head down to her ripped blouse, which she was now attempting to button back up. “What did they do to you?” he demanded as his voice grew unwillingly hoarse. “Did they…”

“No, no. I didn’t give them the chance.” Karen nodded her head to something behind Frank, and he looked to see a third body lying next to Karen’s open purse. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Christ, Karen, you are one hell of a reporter.” She smiled and shook her head.

“I’ve been so focused on the writing, on the chasing and the stories, they were probably waiting for me to come home for days.”

“I know,” Frank responded without thinking, and that was all it took. Karen jerked away from him with an embittered huff, leaving ice where her touch had been as she began to stand.

“I knew it! You’ve been watching me. This whole time, Frank! This whole Goddamn time, with the flowers in the window and the wondering where you were and you didn’t put in a single ounce of effort to let me know if you’re alive or dead!”

“I know that _you’re_ alive!” Frank stood up as well. “That you’re safe! What does it matter that I’m alive if you’re not, huh?” His words came out in a flurry, and the second he realized he had spoken them his body chilled and some inner voice berated him for his cowardice.

“It matters, Frank,” was all she said in response, her voice in that righteous, matter-of-fact tone of hers that oozed conviction. “You matter! Matt’s gone, did you know that? He’s been gone, and Foggy never calls and I...I need to know, Frank. I need to know because you matter to me, and right now you’re about the only thing that does.”

His breath was shuddering now, his body vibrating with the uncertainty of it all and panic overwhelming his senses with those words ringing in his ears. He wanted to hear them, he knew that. Hell, he wanted to be the one to say them. But there were lines, and there were walls, and he was standing on a precipice unsure of whether to leap or edge back from the cliff. And yet he watched her, even now. He watched her arms fold, her head bend down as she retreated into herself, and where his heart was supposed to be he felt constriction and searing pain.

“Karen, you...if you...” he tried, oh God he was trying, and if she would just look at him it would be so much easier. So he said as much. “Look at me. Please.”

She did, and he didn’t know if that was such a good idea because now he was even more lost. “I don’t know, Karen, okay!? I just don’t. I’ve been...I’ve been trying to figure it all out. It’s like, it’s like there’s always been a war for me on the outside. I claw, I bleed, and I kill until the next one comes along. I can win those wars, hell I’m made for those wars. But right now…” he began to falter, and she reached out a hand to brush his cheek. He plowed onward. “I realized that I’m the war. I bring death and destruction to everything I love and with you…” His voice dropped to an uncertain whisper, and as Karen began to pull her hand away he grasped it in his own. “I won’t let it be that way with you. But that’s the only way it can be.”

“Frank…” his name was a benediction on her tongue, and his knees grew weak as he gulped. He had said too much. The words were always hanging in the air between them, buzzing, radiating. But now that they were spoken, he had lost her for sure. His eyes fell to the blood-spattered floor, bile rising in his throat at the realization. He had fucked it all up, again. A hand on his cheek raised his gaze, and he found his breath mingling with Karen’s barely more than an inch from his face. From his lips. _Karen_ , he wanted to say, _we can’t_. He knew it, and she knew it, even as her fingers traced his jawline and his eyes fluttered to her lips. But Frank couldn’t bring himself to say it. Maybe she could. His forehead was on her hers now, his hand toying with a stray strand of hair on her shoulder, his eyes anywhere but her face.

“Please,” he stammered. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me to go.”

“Never,” came her reply, and the last breath of her whisper was barely out before his lips were on hers. They were soft, just as much as her skin, and for all his hard edges she didn’t back down one bit, her hand fisting the fabric at his shoulder as her kiss washed over him like water on stone. He might’ve thought this would ease his hunger, his pumping ache, but even with her lips on his his skin was alight with the need for more. He pressed her to him, one hand tousled in her hair and the other splayed on the small of her back. She let out a gasp as he brought her closer to him, and he could feel himself getting more and more lost in her. This was the answer to the question he never thought he’d ask again, this was his chance at an _after_.

With an unwilling moan and the even heartier loathing of that inner voice, he broke away, still holding her to him. Her eyes met his, a silent question on her parted lips. “I’ll see you. Soon,” said Frank, his voice husky and breathless and his lips freezing in want of her touch. His hands were trembling even as he held her in them, afraid of her response, but she pursed her lips with the slightest of nods, backing out of his embrace. She understood. Of course she did; she was Karen.

“Good night, Frank,” she smiled, and Frank couldn’t understand for the life of him how he was walking away from her. But he was. For now, at least.

“You’ll call the cops about this mess?”

“Of course.”

“Okay.” Frank’s eyes lingered on hers, on her lips and the rise and fall of her chest. If he dallied a moment longer he would never leave. “Stay out of trouble, Karen.”

“You first.”

With a breathless chuckle, he took a step back and watched her accepting demeanor fall. Her gaze lowered for just a moment, her shoulders sagging just a tad; her single beating heart in a world of lonely exposed itself in front of his eyes, and suddenly he was rushing forward again, pressing his lips to her cheek in the way he had done what felt like eons ago. “Good night.”

In a heartbeat he was gone, fighting every urge to glance back at her, to _run_ back. He would, oh, he knew he would. But not tonight.

Until then, he would watch.

And she would know she was not alone.

 

* * *

 

The next day, there was a record of Karen Page ordering a new, blood-free couch, and hiring a locksmith. There was undoubtable proof of a human drug trafficking ring published by her in the form of a scathing expose on the front page of the Bulletin. But there was no one present to see her enter her apartment and slip off her shoes with a shuddering sigh, to find a vase of rich, bright, white roses sitting on her kitchen counter. There was no record of her pressing her fingers to her lips to cover a quiet smile and a glowing blush. And it was only the wind that heard her speak the name of ghost like she loved him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> YAY for my first Karen/Frank fic! Season 1 of the Punisher got me so hyped, I just had to write something. Hope you enjoy! :-)


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